Truth doesn't pose for a picture.
It digs a hole in the ground
to jump into and tunnel itself free,
or climbs to the top
of a building, cliff or tree
to jump off.
What is the real truth
or better to ask
what is it really not
the just-now's question's
rightly known answer
or else what?
The real it, is the real
lack of it.
The question that God asks
from inside the everything that looks
out to see what can be done?
What drove us to here and to where
we are going, on to there and from there
where in these minds... all these crazy things
can't stop making sense.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem